Roger's Good Deed
by LondonBelow
Summary: Roger tries to help a young girl, but no good deed goes unpunished.


Disclaimer: I own nothing.

He had seen her before, dancing. She stood out. She moved to be seen and knew how to be seen, twisting her hips just so, her shoulders rising and falling with his steady rhythm. At first, he had noticed her and thought he recognized her. After a week he knew he recognized her; nine days and he looked for her.

That night, she was different. There were flames around her eyes. Her makeup was smeared and uneven, imperfect unlike every other night when she had the look of someone who spent hours in front of the mirror. She danced as though she had no choice but to dance.

Roger's first set began at nine. By two the place emptied; as usual, he stayed for a drink before heading home. She was still there, but the bartender was telling her, "You gotta go; buy or go, last orders."

"I--I don't have any money," she stammered.

"Then I'm sorry, you've gotta go."

"Hey." Roger barely believed what he was doing; surely this was the buzz of public performance combined with sleep deprivation. Nevertheless, he took the girl's elbow in his hand and told the bartender, "Dave, it's okay, she's with me."

Dave's eyes flicked from Roger to the girl and he shrugged. "Then it's a Guinness and…?" He looked to her.

She stared blankly. Roger leaned in and asked quietly, "You're going to drink?" She nodded. "What do you want? It's okay, I'm buying."

"I…"

_You're not 21, are you, honey?_ He knew he should ask, but then neither was he. He turned to Dave and said, "Sam Adams. Halves. Sam's totally different from Guinness; trade if you don't like it," he told her. "Here, sit down." They sat at the corner of the bar, next to and facing one another at the same time. Roger leaned towards her, giving a sense of privacy and intimacy. "What's your name?"

"April."

"April. Thanks, man." This was to Dave, who nodded and handed two half-pint glasses to Roger. His was a dark, foamy beer, hers a lighter color that reminded Roger of a freshly split tree. Class trips from third grade resurfaced at the strangest times. "Drink," he told April. She grabbed the glass and tentatively gulped it.

"'S good," she said, though her face told him she felt otherwise. It was her first beer.

"So, April--well, I'm Roger. Sorry, I didn't say--"

"I know," she interrupted, then blushed, unable to believe she had interrupted him.

Roger laughed. "G-d, don't blush like that, the things I say aren't that important!" he said, and she laughed.

Roger and April nursed their beers for over an hour. Slowly, he teased the story out of her: she gave few details, but enough that Roger understood she had been kicked out after a fight (which was stupid) and now had no place to go, and was scared; she loved his music (him) and had come to see him play because she felt so at home in the chords…

At half past three a.m. Mark Cohen wandered into the bar, yawning, his eyes slightly glassy and unfocused. Roger took one look at him and said, "Jesus Christ, Mark, are you high?"

Mark glared tiredly. "Collins sent me out to find you. Do you realize it's three-thirty? In the morning?"

"All right," Roger said, "I'm coming. Listen, Mark, this is April--April, this is my roommate, Mark Cohen-- anyway, she's got no place to go so I said she could crash with us for a couple days, just until she gets back on her feet."

Mark squinted at April. "Roger," he said, "where do you imagine she'll sleep?"

"My room. I'll take the couch, I don't mind."

"Your room is a pit and the couch is half your size."

Roger glanced quickly at April. She was opening her mouth to voice a protestation she did not feel. "Yeah, but I'm all cuddly when I sleep," Roger said. "All scrunched up, you know."

Mark knew a losing battle when he saw one. Roger had decided to bring home this girl, and she was coming home. Oh, well. Maybe this wasn't the worst possible outcome. After all, he had said "a couple days". This was not another one-night stand. Roger was trying to do the right thing.

"All right," Mark said. "Come on, let's get home."

Later, when he was sobbing or drunk or high beyond reason, Roger would say that his life ended that night.

The End!


End file.
